Your Eyes and My Smile
by RinaCath
Summary: Elizabeta's fiancé was shot down in the Second World War. Now she visits his grave every year on what would have been their anniversary. This year, she finds an unexpected visitor – his brother, who fought for the other side. Pru/Hun Aus/Hun AH One-shot


**I cried while writing this. MAYBE I'M JUST A SAP FOR A DOOMED ROMANCE, BUT I CRIED SO HARD.**

**I felt the burning need to get my Pru/Hun out in the saddest way possible, I suppose. Either way, I am satisfied with it. But now I'm also sad.**

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><p>No one judges a graveyard on how many bodies it has. They judge it on the grass, the headstones, the flowers. No one judges a grave by the body beneath it. They see wilting flowers, a dirty headstone, and they move on. They don't think about the man under it, the man they don't even know, who might have died saving a child from a burning building or pushing a mother out of the way of a speeding car. For all they care, he was a drug addict who died pushing one too many needles in his arm.<p>

In a memorial cemetery, there's a little more respect. The white, stone crosses are neat and clean. The rows flow across the grass almost like water, unmistakable even from a distance. People smile and say what brave men they are, that they fought for a war and a cause that was true and noble. They died for a reason. They saved us from a horrible fate, and god help those nations whose armies didn't have men so brave and strong.

To Elizabeta, a memorial cemetery was a reason for shame. Shame in a war fought and shame in men murdered for a flag that cared very little for their wellbeing. And there was always a flag in a memorial cemetery. Waving proudly, as if the founding fathers themselves had staked it in the ground, expecting the land around it to fill with the bodies of men who were brave enough to sacrifice their lives for it.

But Elizabeta knew that many of the men beneath her feet had no choice in the matter. They were shipped off the moment they came of age. Eighteen, the age your country could officially murder you without feelings of guilt. These were not brave, strong men who marched across an unfamiliar continent in the name of all that was right and fair and died heroic deaths fighting for what they believed in. These were boys, who were scared and lost, who were pushed across hostile territory and shot down before they'd had a chance.

Elizabeta walked across the fields of headstones, not needing to backtrack or pause to find her way. She knew where she was going. The flowers threatened to wilt in her angry fist and she had to make a conscious effort to relax it. Gilbert deserved nice flowers.

Forty-two rows in. Eighteen down, third pathway on the left. She knew the way. She didn't even have to think about it.

She still wore the ring. Even now, almost three years later, she couldn't bear to take it off. It felt like a betrayal. She'd said yes. She'd cried when he'd given it to her, because she knew what it meant. She'd cried and held him and said yes, she would wait for him, she would never give up on him, not until the day they brought him home in cold pine box.

He'd laughed and told her not to give up on him just yet. He was always good at that. Making her laugh when all she wanted to do was cry.

He wasn't drafted, not that he would be. He hadn't been an American citizen long enough. Marrying her would have given him that, would have meant he could stay with her always, here, in America, where it was safe. He didn't have to join the war. There was no reason.

But he said there was. He'd left Germany because he couldn't stand what they were doing and now he had to go back, because he'd left so much behind. She could see it in his eyes, sometimes, as they sat on the cliffs that overhung the Atlantic Ocean, their feet dangling over the ridge, feeling like they were sitting on the edge of the world. She knew he missed it. Not the Germany they talked about in school, the one they called evil. The place, they said, where terrible things happened. The home of people that would kill you as soon as look at you. The enemy.

He missed the Germany he knew. The one with bright streets and happy people, the one where you could laugh and go to the bars and pubs with your friends, where drinking was a joy and not an escape, where the people weren't divided, he said. They were one people, not like here, not like in America, where everyone pretended that they didn't pull apart at the edges. Where they tried to pretend they treated everyone equal as they shut their doors to the people they deemed different. Before this whole mess, Germany wasn't like that.

And he missed it.

She tried to tell him that he would like it here. America was a nice place, maybe it was different, maybe it wouldn't ever be like what he remembered when he was small, but he could grow to like it. Grow to love it, like she did. She loved America, she loved the people and the smells and the places, and maybe that's why she finally let him go. Because she knew if something destroyed all that, if somehow, her home was stolen from her, she'd want to try and get it back.

So she let him go. He said he had to try, he had to go back and makes things right, and she'd cried and clung to him and wished she'd never have to let go, and he'd told her to dry her eyes and someday, someday he'd come back and he'd sweep her off her feet and bring her back to the home he remembered, and they'd live there and raise beautiful children with her eyes and his smile, and they'd laugh when they remembered how scared they'd been right now.

But that wasn't how it worked. Elizabeta had followed the war, had hung on every little word they let her have. They were winning, they said. They lost American soldiers every day, but the Germans lost more. They were winning.

He wrote to her. He was such a romantic. He told her to hold on to his letters, because someday, someday when they lived in the heart of Berlin or maybe the countryside down in Munich, they'd take them out and show them to their children and tell them about how they had stayed true to each other even when they thought they couldn't bear it anymore, even when they wished they'd never even met each other, if to soften the ache being apart made in their chest.

And she had stayed true. There were men, boys, really, that saw her waiting by the mailbox, that called to her, told her he wasn't coming home. Told her to give up on him. Told her to find a man that could support her, could take care of her. Not a dirty foreigner, they said. One of them, they said. A German, he would only hurt her in the end. Germans didn't know the meaning of love.

She ignored them. She hated them for shaking her faith, for making her wonder. They told her he was probably replacing her with some poor girl right now, sharing her around with his buddies. They said that was how war worked. Boys never came home the same.

But he promised. Elizabeta knew he'd promised, he'd sworn he would never hurt her like that, that he was hers and he would stay true to her forever, forever and longer, as long as it took to come home. But he hoped it wasn't that long.

Elizabeta had written back, had told him how she missed him, how she wished he would come home, how she needed to see him again. How she didn't know how much longer she could stand this, knowing he was an ocean away, where men were killed with every inch they pushed the fronts back.

He promised her it would be worth the wait. She believed him.

Elizabeta wiped her eyes, coming out of her memories enough to find the right row. The headstones passed slowly, and she counted unconsciously, trying not to disappear into her memories and terrified that if she didn't she'd lose them forever.

She remembered the day they'd announced it. Germany had surrendered. Their boys were coming home. She'd cried and cheered with everyone, had hugged perfect strangers, because her beloved was finally coming home. She'd waited for his letter, because he'd promised he'd write the moment he knew he was coming home.

She'd waited. She stood by the mailbox as the mailman came by, and he always smiled at her, he knew her. He knew what she was waiting for, and it was always with a sad shake of his head he handed her the usual letters, from her parents, farther north, from friends. Never that rumpled envelope, yellowed with dirt, marked with fingerprints she cherished almost as much as the letters inside.

He came to her doorstep, finally, with that letter. It wasn't yellowed. It wasn't dirty. There were no fingerprints. He handed it to her, patted her shoulder gently, and turned away.

She'd torn it open, had read it through, terrified, swallowing her fear. But there was no point. She read the words, she felt the paper in her hands, but it wasn't real, it couldn't be real. This wasn't real.

Gilbert couldn't be dead. Couldn't be. He couldn't be gone. They had the wrong Gilbert, this wasn't her Gilbert. It wasn't.

She'd stood on the front step all night, that horrible white paper clenched in her hands, tears running down her face, waiting for it to be wrong. For Gilbert to come running up the front lawn and pull her close and kiss her, to look at the letter and laugh, and she'd laugh too. Because they were supposed to laugh.

They were supposed to laugh. They were supposed to grow old together and laugh and tell their children about the day their father had come home from the war and proven that letter wrong.

Elizabeta almost ran into him, she was so lost in thought. So lost in memories she wished she didn't have.

She'd come to Gilbert's grave. If he hadn't been standing on it, she would have walked right past it. She mumbled an apology and stumbled back a few steps, staring at the ground. He was standing right on Gilbert's grave, and that annoyed her. Who did he think he was, to just stop here, on her fiancé?

She looked up angrily and the argument bubbling in her throat died away. Because this was not a man to be argued with.

He watched her curiously with pale blue eyes that made her shiver. People had told her Gilbert's eyes had made them nervous, the bright red, but they never saw the warmth behind them, the laughter.

These were eyes to be afraid of. They betrayed nothing, piercing through her so sharply, so clearly, she had to fight the desire to look down and check her dress for holes.

He was covered, for the most part. He wore a thick trench coat and a hat pulled down low over his face, enough to cover those eyes, if she weren't a good head shorter than him. She wished he would look away, would leave, but he did neither.

"You Elizabeta?" he asked in a voice so thick with accent Elizabeta didn't realize he was speaking English at first. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came to mind. She was so surprised, confused by this man standing on her almost-husband's grave, she couldn't remember if that was, in fact, her name.

"Sorry." He said after a moment, assuming, probably, that her silence meant he had the wrong person. He turned to go.

"W..wait!" Elizabeta called, still a little shaken. "Yes, I…I'm…her."

He turned around again, looking her over. She felt suddenly awkward, standing here in her thin dress and lace jacket, clutching a handful of flowers that, by now, looked like she'd stolen from another grave.

After a moment he offered her his hand. It was a moment before Elizabeta realized she ought to shake it. She took it gingerly, feeling the rough callouses and scars on his fingers, left from a lifetime of working with his hands.

"I'm Ludwig."

"You…oh. OH." Elizabeta pulled her hand away quickly. Because Gilbert had told her about Ludwig. Had told her about his little brother, who he'd practically raised, who had been a loyal member of Hitler Youth. And, later, a loyal member of the Nazi army.

Gilbert had mentioned him only once, and the hurt in his voice had convinced her to never mention him again.

Ludwig let his empty hand fall to his side again. He didn't seem to mind her withdrawal, or, at least, didn't seem surprised by it. He smiled faintly, a look that seemed out-of-place on his face, and pulled something from the pocket of his oversized trench coat.

A letter. Yellowed with dirt, covered in dirty fingerprints-

Elizabeta snatched it from him, staring at the familiar handwriting, at the memorized, foggy swirls of his thumb. Thinking how he'd licked the letter closed, his warm, living tongue. Wondering how long before he'd died he'd written this.

She pried it open, eager, but careful. She didn't want to destroy any part of it. She wanted it to stay perfect like this. Her fingers brushed the long-dried glue of the envelope and shook, thinking of him, thinking of how he would have sealed it carefully, run his fingers over the edge, because he didn't want to lose a single word.

The envelope cracked loudly as she finally peeled back the flap, pulling eagerly at the faded paper inside, yellow with age as much as dirt.

There was a sudden hope in her mind. That her Gilbert wasn't really dead, that this whole thing, this grave and the clean, white letter and the three years of trying to forget, that they were all a lie. That Gilbert was waiting for her somewhere in Germany, that this letter wasn't as old as it looked, that his warm hand had run across it just days ago, maybe hours.

Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, sending the blood roaring through her ears. She pulled open the letter, trying to ignore the way it crinkled, the way the ink had faded into the paper. It wasn't as old as it looked. It couldn't be.

But the date gave it away. Gilbert always dated his papers, the European way, because he could never remember. And it never mattered. Elizabeta loved the way he wrote his dates. To her, it was unique to him. It was simply something Gilbert alone did.

The hope had died in her chest, had left her feeling empty, but she couldn't help but smile as she read his words, the words he wrote so beautifully, so wonderfully, you wouldn't know he'd only spoken English a few years. She'd vowed, once, to learn German for him. So she could hear just how beautiful he sounded in the language he loved so much. She could only imagine, if this was what he could do with words he barely understood.

His words. He owned the language he used, he fit it together perfectly. He was good with languages, he'd said once. He picked them up fast. He spoke Russian too, had spoken to her once in it. She'd laughed, because it sounded so grating in his throat. And he'd spoken to her in German, murmured nothings in the middle of the night when he was too tired to remember that she couldn't understand.

_Meine liebe_ he'd called her. My love. She'd always been amazed at how soft those words could sound. How she'd always heard them as forced and choked until they were in his mouth. Gilbert could make German beautiful. Gilbert could make any language beautiful. That was his talent.

And now he was dead.

Elizabeta read the letter through tears, not minding that Ludwig was watching, not caring. Because she'd needed this, this little piece of him, to remind herself that it was all worth it. That it was worth the hurt, because once, in another lifetime, she'd had him. He'd been hers. And she'd been his.

It was nothing, really. His usual letter. He didn't know that he'd never write another, never see his beloved to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. He didn't know. And she liked him like that. So full of hope and love and that brilliant light that shone through when he smiled.

_It looks so different now._ he wrote. _It's not the place I remember. But it will be, someday. I know someday it'll be everything I told you and more. You'll like it. I know you like Boston, but you'll like it here too. And even if you don't, we can travel around the world and live everywhere, in the shadow of the Great Wall and by the pyramids in Egypt and back in Boston, and I won't care, because it'll be home with you there._

"He died thinking of you."

Elizabeta smiled. "I know."

Elizabeta felt the imperfect creases and warped edges and looked up, knowing tears were still trailing down her face.

"He would have hated that he's made you cry."

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Ludwig brushed the tears away, his hands surprisingly gentle for being so rough.

"He really loved you."

"I know." Elizabeta held the letter to her chest, where her heart was beating valiantly against the wistful love still choking it. She wiped away what Ludwig had missed, in his awkwardness, staining her pretty lace jacket with tears.

"How did you get the letter?"

Ludwig was quiet for a while. Elizabeta wondered if she even wanted to know. Surely… anyone who was related to Gilbert couldn't be that cruel? That cold?

"He found me." Ludwig said, long past the point Elizabeta had determined that he wouldn't speak at all. She looked up. "After…the Germans surrendered, the Allied troops came through, to…clear out the camps. He came through Berlin and came looking for me."

Ludwig looked down. "He shouldn't have. The..Allies were looking for us, the…the generals, they wanted to hold us responsible. They wanted trials. He…came to warn me. He wanted…me to escape to America."

Elizabeta watched him, feeling her chest grow cold. She'd always imagined Gilbert dying in the field, shot down in the war. The letter they'd sent hadn't been specific. It said he died bravely defending his country. That was all she was allowed.

"He had money, American money, but it…did the job. He got me a ticket to France, and…enough money to get to America." Ludwig stared at the gravestone. "I should have told him no. I should have stayed there in Germany and…faced whatever the Allies wanted to do with me. I was a coward."

They were both quiet.

"How..how did…"

"He made it to the train." Ludwig said quietly. "He couldn't come, he had to stay with the rest of them there, it would be suspicious if he disappeared." Ludwig laughed suddenly, cold and detached. "He said his friends needed him, the other members of his squad. And they needed him, alright, needed him dead. They found him smuggling war criminals out of the country and shot him in the back, like the cowards they are. They just left him there, bleeding. He was still alive. They might have saved him, might have at least kept him out of pain if they would have brought him back to their medic. But they wouldn't. They just laughed at me and said I should be lucky they didn't shoot me too."

He turned and kicked another of the headstones. "They should have! They fucking should have shot me and been done with it. They just told me they'd let me go, knowing I'd killed my brother, because I was a coward, because I was trying to run away." Ludwig turned away from her, hands buried in his pockets.

"I tried to…it was pointless, they shot him through the lung... He told me about you. That's all he would talk about. How he was supposed to take you home and show you everything he loved about Germany. How he was supposed to introduce us, how I'd just love you. He made me take the letter, made me promise I'd give it to you in person." Ludwig sighed. "I guess it was the only way he could know I'd actually go."

Elizabeta felt tears fall on the letter crushed to her chest and wiped them away anxiously, afraid the ink would smudge.

"I'm sorry." he said suddenly, still turned away.

"Why?" Elizabeta asked, hearing the tears in her voice.

"He died…for me. He shouldn't have. It's my fault he's dead."

Elizabeta wiped at her eyes, staring at the letter, at the headstone at her feet.

"No. It isn't." she murmured. "We both know…he would have done it even if he knew what would happen. He loved you too much. I know he did, he-"

"He should have hated me!" Ludwig shouted, turning on her. Elizabeta shrunk back. "He should have hated me and everything I'd done! It would be better than this!"

Ludwig stared at her, flinched back under his fury, and sighed, fists clenched in his pockets.

"I'm..sorry." he mumbled, staring at the gravestone. "I…would..understand, if you turned me in."

Elizabeta frowned.

"What?"

"They would still try me. I'm still a war criminal."

"No."

Ludwig looked up.

"No, that would be stupid. He died to make sure you'd be safe here. I'm not going to make his death in vain."

Ludwig smiled. He offered his hand again and this time she didn't hesitate to shake it.

"Thank you, Elizabeta. I'm glad I met you."

"So am I." Elizabeta said, still holding the letter to her heart. A voice called out over the empty graveyard and Ludwig turned to look over his shoulder.

"Ah, Roderich." Ludwig said. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long."

"That's alright." Roderich said quietly.

"Elizabeta, this is Roderich, my..our cousin. Roderich, this is Elizabeta."

Roderich offered his hand and Elizabeta shook it. "I've heard so much about you."

"I wish I could say the same." Elizabeta said.

Roderich smiled at her and she smiled back.

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><p>Elizabeta stared out at the quiet hillsides of Austria. It was nice here. Quiet.<p>

"Liz! Dinner!"

"Coming, Roderich!"

She turned away from the window, looking at the room around her, at the bed she shared with Roderich, the life she'd put together in the last fifteen years. It wasn't what she'd imagined. But the hurt had healed, and Roderich had helped. She loved him more than anything, more than their home here in the countryside of Austria or the life they'd made together.

"Mom!" The door opened. "Dad says dinner is ready. And Uncle Ludwig is eating with us."

"Thank you, Gilbert." Elizabeta said, standing to kiss his hair. He pushed her away, groaning.

"Moom, don't do that…"

"I'm sorry. Go tell your father I'll be there in a moment."

"'lright." Gilbert ran off down the hall, oblivious of his namesake. He just knew he had his mother's eyes. His father's smile. Of all the children she'd had with Roderich, he was the only one to have any trace of his distant cousin in his features. In his pale skin, his faded hair that might have been called white in the right lighting.

Ludwig had never really settled down in America. He said he couldn't stand speaking English, didn't like the way it felt in his mouth. He'd come back to Europe after a few years and met a nice girl from Italy. They had more children than Elizabeta could count, two of which had bright red eyes.

Elizabeta turned to open the closet door. It was littered with more memories than clothes, really. Boxes of baby pictures and old journals and clothes that had long been outgrown or worn down.

She pushed past them and pulled out a shoebox that was on the verge of falling apart. She carefully cradled it to her chest, setting it on the smooth, cotton bedspread. The top didn't fit anymore, had to be tied on with an old ribbon she'd found at the back of a drawer one day. She picked at the knot and watched it slide away, pulling off the torn lid.

A purple heart glinted at her in the dimming sunlight. She rubbed her fingers across the golden edges, admiring it quietly.

After a moment, she gently set it aside and pulled out a crumpled paper, smoothing it against the bedspread.

_We can travel around the world and live everywhere, in the shadow of the Great Wall and by the pyramids in Egypt and back in Boston, and I won't care, because it'll be home with you there._

She closed her eyes, letting herself drift back, back to when she was young and in love, when Gilbert was hers and she was his. She let herself imagine the life he'd described with so much excitement, so much hope you just couldn't help but feel it too.

"_We'll have so many children, Liz. Dozens of them. And acres of countryside, just acres, just because. And we'll watch them run around and play and laugh from the front porch, holding hands, laughing. And they'll all look like us. Your eyes and my smile. And we'll grow old like that. Just standing there in the warm German sun and watching our children grow up. And they'll get old too, and move away, and we'll be alone with all that beautiful German land, it's so pretty, Liz. It's all so perfect. Can you see it?"_

The door opened and Elizabeta looked up at Ludwig, smiling through her tears.

"What was it like, to listen to him in German?" she asked quietly, running her fingers along the tearing edges of his last letter.

Ludwig smiled back at her. "It was amazing. Like listening to a poet."

Elizabeta looked back at the letter. She'd long since learned German, spoke it more often than English, now. She liked it fine enough, and Roderich was certainly beautiful with it. But there were still days she wished she could have heard Gilbert in his own tongue, have listened to his sweet nothings in the middle of the night and for once whispered back.

_Deine Augen und mein Lächeln._

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><p><strong>It means your eyes and my smile in German. I TRANSLATED IT ALL BYS MYSELF. I'M SO PROUD. Fff that means it's probably wrong...<strong>

**Damn you, Gilbert. Damn you and your... incessant need to..protect people you love. DAMN YOU!**

**So. For anyone who got lost at any point because I get the feeling you may be out there, somewhere, and you probably aren't alone:**

**Gilbert moved to America at the beginning of the war because he didn't like what Germany was becoming and met Elizabeta after a few years. They fell in love and he proposed to her as a promise that he would come home again. He joined the American army because he wanted to make Germany the place he remembered again, and he and Elizabeta exchanged letters while he was in Europe fighting. When Germany surrendered the America soldiers went through and freed the prisoners from concentration camps, Gilbert went and found Ludwig because he knew he would be tried as a war criminal (albeit not a very important one). He gave him money and helped him get to a train station with a ticket to get to France, from which he could find a way to get to America with relative safety. Gilbert, in helping his brother escape prosecution, was shot by members of his own squad (that is, fellow American soldiers he probably considered friends. Who were probably drunk, come to think of it.) The soldiers decided to let Ludwig live with the burden of knowing he'd essentially killed his older brother. Gilbert forced him to take the letter he'd been intending to send to Elizabeta back to America, because he knew Ludwig probably wouldn't leave Germany otherwise. The soldiers probably reported Gilbert as being shot by rouge German soldiers, which is what earned him the purple heart (awarded for being injured or killed by enemy forces). Ludwig traveled to America, where, three years later, he managed to find Gilbert's headstone. He probably came to it multiple times before finally meeting Elizabeta. He gave her the letter and later introduced her to Roderich, who she eventually married and traveled to Austria with. She named her oldest son Gilbert.**

***pant pant* I think that's it... Oh, and Ludwig married a nice Italian girl and had way too many children. I feel this is a necessary part to any AH story. Also I feel like I just raped my own story, but whatever.**


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